


the sense of deadly purpose

by fortunati



Series: black thorn tree [1]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Dubious Morality, Male-Female Friendship, Murtagh Needs To Work On People Skills, The Loki-Valkyrie Effect, This Sounds Like A Mess And It Is, Understanding, Unrequited Crush, Vigilante Justice, im impressed, something i like to call, yes i do love murtagh/nasuada but in canon they would never work out okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 02:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunati/pseuds/fortunati
Summary: Nasuada has long since learned to count the shadows of her bedchamber. It's part of royal life.





	the sense of deadly purpose

**Author's Note:**

> the debute of my series "black thorn tree" about murtagh, thorn, and how to move on. this is actually a continuation of a scene in the main fic, that's still a very, very long work in progress, but i love it dearly and i will finish it (eventually) because it means so much to mean
> 
> that being said, yeehaw mothers and fuckers

Nasuada feels the movement in the room before she hears the quiet snap of a cloak, moving to catch the assailant's hand, armed with a knife, as she grabs her own knife, aiming for his throat. The assailant traps her hand, and they are locked in a deadly truce.

A quicksilver smirk flashes across his face in the moonlight, and Murtagh says,

“They've trained you well.”

They release each other simultaneously, taking a step back to appraise each other. A quick, short laugh bursts out of the queen's mouth as she retorts, quick and easy,

“ _ I  _ taught me well. Apparently it's not appropriate for a queen to learn combat.”

“Bullshit,” is all Murtagh says as her gaze roves over him as he slides his knife back into the sheath on his forearm, and shakes out his hood, and then his hair. Her eyes catch on the beard framing his chin.

She looks away.

“So where have you been all these years?” she asks, moving further into her bedroom, kicking off her shoes and pulling out the pins that kept her hair tight against her head.

Murtagh leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and says with no small amount of amusement,

“Well I would have been in the capital dealing vigilante justice, but you would have found me and then I would have been shamed into stopping.”

Nasuada looks at him out of the corner of her eye and says carefully,

“So all that was you, then.”

“Oh, Thorn did plenty.” 

“Murtagh.” She turns to face him, one hand on her hip as she gives him a disapproving look.

Murtagh looks away as the mirth falls from his face. He glances back at her, looking up at her from under his lashes even though she's a good six inches shorter than he.

“All due respect, but you're too merciful. The whole lot of you.”

The corner of Nasuada's mouth quirks in response.

“No amount of saying ‘all due respect,’ is going to make referring to world leaders as ‘the whole lot’ respectful.”

His expression does not deviate, and Nasuada thinks his ability to look into other's souls has only gotten stronger.

“We can't just execute people,” she says softly, and wishes he could understand.

Murtagh only shakes his head, a bitter laugh huffing from his mouth.

“Nasuada,” he says just as softly, and she wishes it didn't still make her want to shiver. It's the first time he's said her name in… in…  _ years _ . He takes a handful of steps forward. “They would have killed you if they had the chance. Destabilize an already destabilized country - world. They were planning it.” His voice sounds sorrowful. “And they were counting on my help.”

Nasuada has the dignity to gasp.

“ _ No. _ Who?”

"Baron Dranan Elderghast. I’m sure you’ve no doubt heard of his gruesome and gory death by now.”

“And of the red rider chased from his village.”

Murtagh scowls, a dark look crossing his face, and something else she does not know how to identify.

“The Baron capturing one of the townspeople decidedly did not help my reputation. He drew me in. Told me of his mighty plan to kill the Imposter Queen – he called you that in all seriousness, by the way – and told me that by helping, my betrayal would be forgiven. Or rather, he thought Eragon spun the tale of my help so that the general population would forgive me my crimes, so that I would be indebted to my brother for clearing my name,” Murtagh scoffs, sneering at his reflection in the window. “The things people think about him… all because no one can believe in a good heart anymore.”

“It’s a founded disbelief,” Nasuada says carefully. “So much has happened… sometimes I forget just how good Eragon is. He had no alternate intentions. Well, maybe that part about revenge for his uncle, but…”

They fall into silence. Nasuada stands next to Murtagh by the window, and they stare out at the city.

“Can I expect you in the morning?” she asks lightly.

She feels Murtagh tense beside her.

“No.”

She looks over at him – his shoulders are hunched, hair hanging in his face.

“I miss you,” she says next, without inflection. Let him take it as he will. She meant it.

A long pause. Nasuada thinks he probably isn’t going to say anything when,

“I miss you, too,” almost inaudible. "I'll come back," he says, a promise in his voice, and then he is gone.

 

…

 

Murtagh does come back, not a month later, and he wastes no time lurking in the shadows, knocking the knife Nasuada throws at him to the side with ease, and begins to speak immediately.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Nasuada blinks.

“What?”

“Leaving,” he says, sounding exasperated or - or maybe desperate. “Are you leaving Ilirea any time soon?

Nasuada frowns.

“I was going to Surda, for Orrin's wedding.”

Murtagh runs a hand down his face, looking ragged.

“Of course. Of course, you are.”

“Murtagh, what in the seven hells is going on?” she demands, grabbing his forearms.

“The Dishonored Lords. They're planning to attack and kill you.”

“That's obviously not going to happen,” she says, but she's not sure if she's trying to convince him, or herself.

Murtagh laughs, once, angry and bitter and she sees the man he used to be resurface, and she  _ does not like it. _

“Let me take you,” Murtagh says then, asks, demands. “Thorn and I are the only ones who can keep you safe.”

“Arya and Firnen,” Nasuada retorts.

“They don't know about the threat-”

“So  _ tell. them.”  _ She pokes him in the chest to emphasize her point. “I don't need your protection, I have my own.”

Murtagh's face smooths back into his neutral mask and it is somehow even worse than when he looked angry and like the old Murtagh.

“If you won't let us take you, then let me kill them.”

“Murtagh-”

He takes her upper arms, firmly, and looks her in the eyes. There's a scar crossing his temple and stopping under the outer corner of his eye she hadn't noticed before.

“ _Let. me. kill them._ Nasuada, the longer you let them live, the more time they have to plot against you. I don't care about my reputation - it's already lost. Let me do this.”

Nasuada swallows, steps out of his grip, and straightens her sleeves.

“Will you still kill them even if I say no?”

The dark, calculating look in his eyes is the only answer she needs.

“I can do this with your blessing, or I can do it without. I'd rather you not be angry with me for the rest of your days, though.”

Nasuada looks away.

“So it doesn't matter what I say.”

“All due respect, but you are not my queen. The Riders are not bound by any government or ruler. You are my friend, however, and I value your advice. But you are my friend. And I won't let any of my friends die.

“I am your friend,” she replies, turning back to him. “And I cannot condone murder.”

Murtagh's spine straightens as determination sets into his shoulders.

“I understand,” he says, and turns to leave.

“But.”

He stops, freezing in his steps, and does not look back at her.

“But I will protect my country and people. Sometimes that means doing things I would prefer not to.”

He turns around to face her this time, sensing the gravity of the situation. She's closer than he thought, and he feels a surge of pride that she managed to get closer without him noticing.

“Be my eyes and ears. Be my informant.” Nasuada pauses, and he sees a glimpse of the queen in her gaze. “Be my assassin.”

Murtagh bows, going down on one knee. It is the first time he has bowed to anyone of his own will since Galbatorix. 

“As you wish.”

“Murtagh,” her voice is soft again, and he looks up at her. “This is not a command.”

“I know,” he says softly. “There's nothing I'd rather be.”

 

…

 

He kills the lords still remaining in Ilirea. Wipes out their bloodline. The death and blood on his hands should bother him, except - this isn’t like Hrothgar, or Oromis and Glaedr. This isn’t innocent blood. This is justice. This is atonement. 

He tells her as much the next time she sees him, when a flurry of death has passed, but the smell of it still seems to cling to his clothes.

She watches him curiously. Something about him seems different.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks. The last death was three nights ago. Murtagh is a silhouette against a moonless sky. He withdraws a piece of parchment but does not offer it to her.

“I was called away.”

_ Called away. _

“May I ask who?”

Murtagh’s mouth twitches when he looks at her.

“You may,” he says. Nasuada frowns at him, playfully.

“Spending time around Angela, I see.”

He lifts one shoulder, and that is when she sees it. It’s something she’s seen before. It’s something she’s seen before most notably in Roran Stronghammer, when he thought about his wife, and she’s not sure what she feels about this revelation.

“Murtagh…” her voice is quiet, unsure, and it visibly catches Murtagh off guard. “We’ll always be friends, right?”

After a moment of careful study of her face, Murtagh nods once, then again.

“Yes,” he says. “Friends.”

That’s what she thought. She must have looked more disappointed than she though she did, because Murtagh lays a hand on her shoulder.

“It would never have worked out. Not once  _ he  _ got me. Once he got me, it was all over.”

She knows this. It still hurts. There was something between them - and perhaps that’s the key word -  _ was  _ \- but whatever it was had left Murtagh a long time ago.

“You don’t need me, anyway.” Nasuada looks at him. He’s smiling, a tiny hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth, and something like pride shining in his eyes. “You don’t need anyone. Never have.”

It draws a smile from her own mouth.

“It’s still nice to have someone, though.”

“Yes,” Murtagh agrees easily. “Yes, it is.”


End file.
